AN- hey guys, I'm sorry for such a long delay, things in my life have been a little crazy lately, but please let me know what you think. I'm not 100% sure how much of this particular murder I want to write about, so I would really appreciate your feedback. This chapter is currently unbeta-ed, so let me know about mistakes.
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock, and some of my inspiration for the some of the plot comes from other shows, so everything recognizable, I do not own, nor am I making money from this.
It's been a couple of weeks since my first case after coming back from Afghanistan. Sherlock has been surprisingly considerate about my injuries. After that first case, everything has been going pretty well, and I might even be able to get out of this infernal cast today. After a few minor setbacks, Sherlock having decided to perform some experiments on the plaster while I was sleeping, the doctor's appointment is finally today.
"John!" he yells, "Do you want to be late for your own appointment?!" If anyone is more excited about me getting the cast off, it would be my husband. He claims that he can't wait to go to most crime scenes, since it's a challenge to get to the more secluded sights.
"Sherlock, love, we have two hours. It's 6am. How about we go down to Speedy's for some breakfast, yeah?" I reach over to the side of my chair for the crutches, struggling to get out of the chair. Sherlock comes over and helps me up, hands me the crutches, and kisses the top of my head.
We make our way downstairs to the restaurant, and after I finished my food and make Sherlock hat some toast with his tea, we head outside. Sherlock hails a cab, I always wonder how he does it, and I tell the cabbie to take us to the hospital.
On the ride over, Sherlock surprises me again, taking my hand a squeezing it. We watch the foggy grey London streets in content silence.
A/N I don't feel like writing about the doctors visit
Just as we are leaving the hospital, cast and crutches free, both mine and my husbands phones beep, coming up with a text from Lestrade. J-another murder, this ones a creepy one, need your help. Director specifically asked for you two. -L
"Well, Sherlock, looks like I got that cast off just in time, we've got a case!" I say. "Greg says it's a bad one, the higher-ups asked for you."
"Mycroft," he grumbles, "this better not be another one of his little schemes to get me to help with his MI projects. And I wanted to do something, now that you don't have your cast." I lean up and kiss his cheek.
"Well, that's very sweet of you, love, but I know that Greg could really use your help. You know how incompetent Anderson and Donovan are." Usually this tactic works with Sherlock, you just have to make him preen a little. "Besides," I add, "your brother promised not to manipulate your friendship with Greg after the last time, after you hijacked his treadmill."
"Fine," he says in an indignant tone, "have George send the address. But after this case I get to take you on an actual date." I smile while he's not looking. No one realized how much of a romantic Sherlock is.
At the crime scene, after stopping back at the flat for me to grab my bag, we go through our normal routine, but this time there is someone new on the perimeter, who refuses to grant us access.
"Sirs," he says, "I'm sorry, but no civilians are allowed on the scene." I trade a look with my husband, who gives me a minuscule nod, letting me handle the situation like I did with Donovan and Anderson a few weeks ago.
"Sargent, do you know who you are talking to? No? My name is Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and this is my husband, Sherlock Watson-Holmes. What is your security clearance?" I demand.
He stutters for a moment before saying, "Beta yellow, captain."
"Sherlock, be a dear and grab my ID out of my bag there? It's a little hard to get it out with this stupid cane." Even if I was off of crutches, I still have to use a cane, for my leg still gives me grief. I have to say, though, it's a nice change from the crutches. Sherlock digs though my bag, but before he pulls out my ID, Greg walks up and pulls aside the Sargent before returning to us.
"Sorry about that, guys. New men are so hard to train these days. You better hurry, this one needs to stay out of the press as long as possible. Nice to see you without the cast on, John! Not a ton of stairs to manage today, but there's a couple. I wish we the killers at least put the bodies in easier places for you."
The one thing about Greg that I don't like is that he can be a little condescending sometimes, but I know he doesn't mean to be. "Thanks, mate, it's nice to be out of the infernal thing. Let's get going, then." Sherlock mutters something about how if killers made it easier for the Yard, he would go stupid from boredom, yet lifts the tape to let me under.
In the house, we descend the cellar stairs, coming into an unfinished basement that looks to have been turned into a chemistry lab. Sherlock immediately turns to the body in the middle of the room, propped up in an uncomfortable-looking chair. I pause and look at my husband. It's always amazing to see him in his element, doing what he loves, catching killers.
"John, what are you doing just standing there, I need cause of death. Something is strange about this one and it's irritating me." As I make my way over, I hear Anderson mutter, 'for once, the all knowing freak doesn't have an answer.'
Sherlock spins on a dime, turning to face Anderson. "Anderson, I actually have about 10 different scenarios running though my head right now, and I need John's COD to narrow it down. If you manage to come up with even an inkling of a theory, I'm sure that your elementary school would be willing to take you back."
"Boys," Greg says, "calm down, we're all here for the same reason, to catch a killer. Sherlock," he gestures to the body, "if you wouldn't mind sharing your theories?"
"Actually, George, I would not. My theories are just that, theories. I need more data before I can make a definitive conclusion. John, hurry up, I want to take my samples back to the lab."
I crouch by the body, noting the vintage clothing, perfect makeup, and start my examination. "Well," I say, "looks like she died of poisoning, tiny nick just past the hairline, behind the left ear. But, Sherlock, it looks like she was posed like this." I look up at him, knowing that my face showed the worry that I'm feeling.
"How long has she been like this, then?" Greg asks.
"I would say she's been dead at least a year, but there are indications that she was held as a captive before then."
AN: Don't hate me for the cliffhanger! I'll try to write more soon, but please give your feedback, it makes writing easier.